Because the blues is the GOOD silage
and because no one keeps stock. Because I
will not revise things elliptical, I
wear rocks in my pockets, silage, I
get it –
I get it –
this is why (and like their gravestones
chatter) with a smirk behind the features
I had it –
the thing becomes a weight
with a number. I
will
no longer panic. And though
I find little holy, I
want me a little freckled pretty missus
all the same, where
the GOOD sun barks up the blues’ tree.